<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>An August Moon Burning Above by the_most_beautiful_broom</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27842851">An August Moon Burning Above</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom'>the_most_beautiful_broom</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternative Universe - FBI, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Era, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Spies &amp; Secret Agents, Suburbia, based off a tv show, scarecrow and mrs king AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:14:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,888</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27842851</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bureau assigns Emori to the Arkadia case—maintaining high cover in a suburban neighborhood, desperate to find the sleeper cell that’s sneaking weapons into the country. And while Emori is unbeatable in combat, blending into suburbia isn’t as easy an ask, and the FBI pairs her with a civilian partner, a baker, of all things. She and Murphy have nothing in common, but they’ll put their differences aside to find the cell and close this case...only to realize that maybe going back to their separate lives is suddenly less appealing now.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Emori/John Murphy (The 100)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>t100fic4blm Donation Celebration</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>An August Moon Burning Above</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic is v loosely based off a niche TV show from the 80s called Scarecrow and Mrs King. Really just a couple plot points were lifted, but credit where it’s due! It was written for our Donation Celebration, as a part of t100 for BLM initiative--to learn more, please check out <a>our carrd</a>! I’d love to write more for y’all, and prompting is really simple now!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Any number of things can lead to a submitted application to be a civilian volunteer for the FBI--a bout of patriotism, a softer judicial decree, boredom--but most of the files sit in untouched folders in a vault somewhere deep in J. Edgar Hoover Building, collecting dust and waiting for the day that a case comes along, so highly specific, so deeply ridiculous, that a civilian volunteer is needed. </p><p>An intern will take the elevator down to Sub Level C, a series of antiquated security alarms will be passed through, and the files will be opened. </p><p>Emori’s been with the Bureau for seventeen years now, and it still amazes her how outdated some of the procedures are. </p><p>Take, for example, the Arkadia Case. </p><p>The known facts: someone is sneaking weapons into the country. Someone in the Arkadia Estates, a Stepford Wives nightmare of a gated community, left frantic voicemails for their Senator's office and has now been missing for eighteen hours. </p><p>The educated guesses: the two facts are related, Maya Vie knew, and she’s long dead.</p><p>But the Bureau isn’t accepting logic because it’s not definitive, so an intern came up from Sub Level C of the L. Edgar Hoover Building with an armful of files, of which Director Jaha had selected six, the first of which was delivered to Emori's desk with a flourish. </p><p>John Murphy, the folder says, with a picture of a man that doesn’t fit the normal volunteer profile. The rest of the file continues along that vein, the antithesis of the cliche volunteer--he’s never worked law enforcement, he didn’t study Finance in college, and he let a couple parking tickets escalate to court dates. The man wasn’t even a Boy Scout.</p><p>Emori’s grateful she’s not working with a wannabe Steve Rogers.</p><p>If she has to work with a civilian, at least it’s someone without a hero complex or a thinly-veiled Nationalism streak.</p><p>Instead, she’s got a baker.</p><p>Emori knows she’s lurking, across the intersection from a row of cute small businesses in Georgetown, a hipster maven in DC. There’s a store of candles pumping evergreen and citrus into the fall air, and then a vintage record store that’s looping the same Miles Davis record over and over again. Halfway down the way is the shop where she’ll find him. </p><p><em> Bread&amp; </em>, it’s called, which even Emori can admit is creative. A noun and an ampersand, an automatic question that will make passerbys curious--bread and what? Butter? Coffee? Good conversation? Come in and find out.</p><p>Emori steps across the street, holding up a ‘thanks for stopping; I’m going anyways’ hand to the traffic as they pause at the intersection, a spare case file tucked under her arm. Someone lays on the horn, but she doesn’t look up.</p><p>Warm air hits Emori on a wave as she steps into <em> Bread&amp; </em>, bringing with it the comforting and indulgent smell of carbs. </p><p>It’s a nice shop. </p><p>Brick walls, slate countertops, bar stools next to a pastry counter and overstuffed leather chairs around the perimeter; it’s an androgynous space that’s both cool and cool. There’s something jazzy playing over the speakers, loud enough to cover the sound of espresso machines but soft enough to converse over. The ceilings are enormous, vaulted and looming, with air plants and modern art covering the tall walls. </p><p>Behind the counter, servers with beanies and tattoos are taking orders, slicing bread from a glass case and pulling lattes from an espresso machine. They have knife belts in their aprons, three or four wooden handles poking out of the thick canvas, that they wipe the blades on before replacing them. There’s a swinging door at the end of the main room, leading into a kitchen; when it opens, fresh bread smells drift out. </p><p>The bread itself is definitely the star, here. </p><p>There’s the loaves in the display cases, but the wall behind the counter, next to the kitchen, is stacked with bread, just waiting its turn. Emori counts at least a dozen varieties of loafs, plus a couple of pastries and baked goods. Everyone around <em> Bread&amp; </em> seems to be sampling more than one loaf, slices spread with jams and clotted cream, or simply butter, or even plain, and no plate stays full for long.</p><p>“You ordering?” </p><p>Emori looks across the counter to see a woman in a red shirt and a high ponytail; her nametag says ‘Raven’, and she looks like she should be frontlining a rock concert, not taking orders at a cafe. </p><p>“I’ll take a piece of whatever sells the fastest,” Emori says, stepping up to the counter. </p><p>Raven smiles a bit, clicking a couple things into the cash register. “Something to drink?”</p><p>“Flat white,” Emori answers. Behind Raven, the door swings open to the kitchen, and Emori recognizes a silhouette from the folder back at her desk. </p><p>“Chocolate challah and a flat white,” Raven says, looking up. “$6.25.”</p><p>Emori puts it on the expense card she carries around expressly for this purpose. Raven clicks a couple more things and then turns to the wall of bread, pulling a fresh loaf, instead of the precut slices under the glass. </p><p>Awfully considerate of her. </p><p>“Your boss in?” Emori asks.</p><p>Raven turns back around, eyebrow slightly raised. She drops the challah on a cutting board and pulls out an imposing knife from her apron.  </p><p>“He is,” she says, slicing the bread without breaking eye contact. “He do anything fun to warrant a visit?”</p><p>“Not yet,” Emori says. She pulls out her badge, flips it at Raven, who grins broadly. </p><p>“Knew it.” She pulls a ceramic plate from under the register, slips a piece of parchment paper onto it and then the slice of bread, which she sets on the counter, sheathing the knife. “Yeah, he’s in the kitchen. Want me to call him out front?”</p><p>Emori shakes her head, taking the plate. “I’ll meet him in his office. Anyone else back there?”</p><p>Raven whistles. “He in trouble?”</p><p>“Not at all, just a couple questions.”</p><p>Raven nods. “Hmm. Okay, well it’s probably just him. I’ll stop the runners from heading back that way?”</p><p>“Thanks,” Emori says. “I’ll be out in five, for that flat white.”</p><p>“You got it,” Raven says, her chin dipping. She leans around Emori to wave to the line. “Next!”</p><p>Emori makes her way around the bar to the kitchen, pushing the swinging door open with her boot. When it shuts behind her, the sounds of the cafe quiet to a dull murmur, conversation and jazz and knives and hissing steam, all fading. </p><p>It’s an orderly kitchen, if a crowded one. </p><p>There’s aisles of proving bread, large ovens and wooden peels leaned up against them. In the middle is a stainless steel island, covered in flour and freshly-formed loaves of bread, a man behind it, pulling smaller loaves out of an enormous blob of dough. </p><p>Emori stays by the door for a moment, just watching him.   </p><p>He’s the man in the file, John Murphy, obviously. He’s wearing a sweater like he’s in the Knives Out cast; his hands are covered in flour, brow furrowed in concentration. He’s mumbling something to himself, Emori can’t make out what, but he moves quickly, easily, like it’s a natural thing to have spheres form in his hands, from the glob of yeast and flour and water at the end of the table. </p><p>He tilts his head a little, considering the loaf under his fingers, pulls it around the flour again, reshaping it. Satisfied, he whisks it down to the other end of the table, patting the flour on top so it sends up a small cloud, humming. </p><p>She walks over, and he looks up slightly, just enough to confirm that he heard footsteps and not an echo, that it’s a person not his imagination, then he goes back to the dough. </p><p>“How’s the challah?” he asks, and Emori’s surprised by his voice. It’s almost meek, not gruff and not polished, but something in the middle, like measured irreverence.</p><p>Honestly, she hadn’t intended to take the bread, much less eat it. But, for the sake of good first impressions, she takes a bite, setting the plate down on a rising rack as she walks by it. </p><p>It’s good.</p><p>It’s ridiculously good, actually, rich and complex and honestly unbelievable that this is bread, because it tastes like something much more complicated. </p><p>“It’s good,” she says, simply.</p><p>John smirks, just a little, his mouth quirking up as he continues to work the dough. “I’ll take it. What can I do for you?” </p><p>“My name’s Emori; I’m with the FBI,” she says, coming to a stop on the other side of the table.</p><p>John nods, continuing to work on the dough in front of him. </p><p>“Emori, from the FBI, do you mind if I multitask? I need to get these proving.”</p><p>She doesn’t, but she’s surprised by it. “Do agents stop by every day?” she asks of his nonchalance.</p><p>He laughs, a sound not quite warm enough to be a chuckle. “Never, actually, but you came in here pretty quiet and haven’t pointed anything at me yet, so I figure I’m not in trouble.”</p><p>That’s fair. </p><p>When she doesn’t say anything, he looks fully up at her, hands still moving over the loaf. Emori holds his gaze, her face unaffected, but something in her chest stutters.</p><p>The file said “blue eyes”, said it right next to “brown hair” and “5’10””.</p><p>But it didn’t say glacial like a cave in Vatnajökull, it didn’t say deep like the Krubera, it didn’t say bright like the sky above Anchorage. </p><p>Even if it had, she still wouldn’t have been prepared.</p><p>He clears his throat, looking down again, quickly. </p><p>“Sorry,” he mutters. “Didn’t mean to stare.”</p><p>Had he been staring?</p><p>Emori watches him, more curious than she’d like to admit. Steady hands over the dough, a determined expression on his face, his jaw clenching slightly. </p><p>“No problem,” she says, carefully. “Um, Jaha sent me.”</p><p>“Yeah?” John asks, finishing the loaf, sliding it down the table. “And how is the chancellor?”</p><p>“The Director,” Emori corrects, and he gives the same not-chuckle, “is fine. He has a case for you.”</p><p>John sighs. “I figured he would, eventually. Damn. Not a great guy to owe a favor to.”</p><p>Emori’s eyes narrow, in spite of herself. “This isn’t a favor, John, it’s a case that the FBI is working on, something that’s actively endangering people if we don’t fix it.”</p><p>His hands still on the dough. </p><p>He looks up, glacier eyes searching. </p><p>“Two things,” he says, and his hands resume their motion. </p><p>Emori tilts her head, waiting. </p><p>“First, no one calls me John. Second, who is ‘we’?”</p><p> Emori shrugs. “It’s your name, isn’t it?” </p><p>“It’s on my birth certificate,” he says, his eyes joining his hands back on the bread. “Who is we?”</p><p>“You and I,” Emori says. “I can give you an official briefing, or I can drop this off with you, and see you in 2 hours.”</p><p>John looks up. “What’s in 2 hours?”</p><p>Emori smiles. </p><p>She brushes some of the flour away from the corner of the table, then drops the file on it. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out an iPhone, a wedding ring, and a house key, setting them on top of the file. </p><p>“Our U-haul starts unloading at the Arkadia Estates,” she says, pretending not to notice when his jaw genuinely unhinges. “See you there.”</p><p>And she walks out of the room. </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Murphy’s doing a pretty good job of playing it cool when the most stunning woman he’s ever seen walks into his kitchen. </p><p>He’s doing a decent job of playing it cool when she actually tries something he bakes, and says it’s good. </p><p>He’s doing an alright job of playing it cool when she calls him by his name, which he doesn’t accept from anyone else, but will take from her, and he’s managing okay when she says that she’s with the FBI and that Jaha has a case for him. </p><p>But he loses all pretense of cool when she drops a ring and a house key and a manila folder on his work bench like it’s an episode of the X-Files, and then strides out of his kitchen like he didn’t fall in love on the spot. </p><p>Shit. </p><p>Is that really all it takes?</p><p>Brown eyes that look like they know everything about him, a voice that he’d listen to reading the phone book, a smile that she was trying so hard to hide, but that only made him want to coax it out. </p><p>So maybe that is all it takes.</p><p>He wants to go through the file, but he’s covered in flour and it looks pretty damn official, plus he wasn’t kidding, he really does need to get these loaves proving. So he wipes a hand on his jeans and pulls his phone--the crappy phone in his back pocket, not the released-two-weeks-ago iPhone that the agent left on the table--and dials a number he wishes he didn’t have on speed dial. </p><p>Jaha answers on the fourth ring; Murphy sets it on speaker and settles it into the flour.  </p><p>“Jonathan,” the director booms. “What did you think of Agent Reina?”</p><p>So her last name’s Reina. </p><p>Murphy pockets that information, continuing on the dough. </p><p>“Yeah, she left me a case file and something cryptic, but I have to finish these loaves; want to give me the highlights?”</p><p>“Murphy,” the man sighs, and Murphy can hear him clicking his tongue. “Do you think I have time for this?”</p><p>Murphy finishes the loaf, shrugging, even though the man can’t see it. “Figured you wouldn’t answer if you didn’t.”</p><p>Jaha hums. </p><p>“I have a meeting in four minutes that I absolutely cannot miss,” he says, and Murphy knows that means he’s getting a briefing. </p><p>“Talk fast, Jaha,” he calls from the other end of the table, rolling the loaf. </p><p>“Someone’s smuggling weapons into the country,” Jaha says, bluntly.</p><p>“Don’t we have enough of our own?” Murphy asks, sectioning off a new portion of dough.</p><p>“We do, but these are unlicensed, and they’re dangerous.” </p><p>Murphy has an opinion or seven about the accessibility of American-made weapons, but he decides to not mention that. </p><p>He and Jaha go way back, but not far enough to weather that conversation. </p><p>“Okay,” he dips his hands into the flour, sprinkling it over the sticky surface of the dough. “So what do you need me for?”</p><p>“We got a distress call from someone in the Arkadia Estates, a woman named Maya Vie, desperate to talk to a senator, saying she’d found something. She’d only talk to him; he was out of office, so someone took a message. She didn’t answer his return call--what do you mean he’s here already; I have three more minutes and I’m on the phone--long story short, she’s been missing for 18 hours.” </p><p>Murphy makes a face, shaping the dough. “Okay, so you’re sending people out there?”</p><p>“Well we would,” Jaha says, and there’s a click, which means he just switched from his phone to his bluetooth; walking and talking, “but her husband’s pretty spooked. Whole neighborhood is, actually. So we need someone undercover.”</p><p>“Agent Reina?” Murphy prompts.</p><p>“Agent Reina,” Jaha confirms. “The thing with gated communities like Arkadia, is women don’t move out there alone.”</p><p>“High crime rate?” Murphy jokes, before it catches up with him that a woman is very much actually missing. “Poor taste, sorry. What, is it like a stepford wives situation?”</p><p>“You’re not far off, Murphy,” Jaha says, and Murphy can hear him opening the door. “Look, Murphy, Emori’s the best I have, and she’s gonna solve this thing; in that, I have absolute faith. But she doesn’t know the first thing about blending into suburbia.”</p><p>Murphy looks around his kitchen. </p><p>He's not much, but he likes to think of himself as a little better than suburbia. </p><p>“Surely you have other, more stereotypical people to be on this,” he prompts, and he can hear Jaha sigh. </p><p>“I’ve worked through all the options, John; you’re the best match for her. You signed up for the program for a reason, remember, and this is it. Just be convincing cover, show her the ropes, lay low for a couple days, it’ll be fine.”</p><p>It hadn’t really occurred to Murphy that things wouldn’t be fine, until Jaha says it like he’s trying to convince the both of them. </p><p>“Okay,” he says, and the dough is almost a perfect circle now. “So I’m just playing house for a couple days in the suburbs?”</p><p>“Exactly. There’s more info in the case file if you--okay, I’ve got to go Murphy. Good luck. Uncle Sam thanks you, all that--Representative, hi,” Jaha’s voice jumps an octave as his politician voice takes over, and a moment later the phone beeps as the call ends.</p><p>Murphy moves the loaf down to the end of the bench. </p><p>So. </p><p>An agent and a baker, posing as a couple in the suburbs, trying to figure out who’s smuggling weapons into the country, why, and if the Maya woman is dead or just missing. </p><p>Murphy pulls a razor out of his apron, slicing across the top of the loaves; they split in the leaf pattern he slashes, relaxing on their parchment square. </p><p>What could go wrong? </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It’s been so good to write memori after a minute off :) Hoping to get the next chapter uploaded by the weekend--let me know what y’all think (and any guesses! Always love to read what people anticipate for fics like this).</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>